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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795316">Eyes Open</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakzen/pseuds/weakzen'>weakzen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Selective Sight [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Conversations, F/M, Feelings, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kissing, Pain, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, References to Depression, Slow Romance, Tenderness, Touching, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:08:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,463</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakzen/pseuds/weakzen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of their encounter with Bobby, the Detective shares a look at her past with Mason.</p>
<p>And Mason, in return, offers her a glimpse of a better future.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Selective Sight [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967836</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Eyes Open</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">The noise of water continues when I turn the shower off.</p>
<p class="western">Rain, battering the building and roof above, pounding hard against the parking lot, parked cars, and thicket of pines swaying in the wind behind the apartments. Pounding loudly too, through the open bathroom window facing it all. Woodsmoke and the tang of cold drift in as well, mingling with the steam and the cedar scent of juniper soap, rushing toward me on a blast of frigid air when I grimace and yank the curtains back. I shiver violently as it hits, and dash to the towel rack to dry off as quickly as possible.</p>
<p class="western">The worst fucking part about showering this time of year, but shower accomplished nonetheless.</p>
<p class="western">Hooray.</p>
<p class="western">I should accomplish dinner next, once I'm done in here. Haven't eaten since my early lunch, but…</p>
<p class="western">Think I'd probably have an easier time chewing up and swallowing my boots at the moment, than I would actually managing to down—and successfully hold down—any food.</p>
<p class="western">My stomach is just… too tight. Too knotted. Squeezing uncomfortably into a vague sense of nausea and the barest trace of heartburn.</p>
<p class="western">And the fun doesn't stop there.</p>
<p class="western">It claws up my torso too, the tightness, into further constriction, into a deep, choking tension in my throat, like someone's knocked me on my ass, dug a knee dead center to my chest, and heaved all their weight atop it. Like they're trying to crush me beneath that intense, concentrated pressure while they jab their fingers into the soft hollow between my collarbones, and all I can do is suck in shallow breaths against it. Feeble breaths. Weak little inhales that drag into me on inaudible wheezing and leave just as strained.</p>
<p class="western">I'm sure the stuffy nose also doesn't help.</p>
<p class="western">I finish scrunching the water from my hair, then wrap the towel around myself.</p>
<p class="western">Even my eyes feel strained and heavy. Sunken. Oddly-shaped in their sockets, simultaneously too big and too small. And my back… <em>fuck</em>.</p>
<p class="western">Don't remember the last time my back was this stiff and painful.</p>
<p class="western">Gently, I roll my shoulders and head against it, but the stretching does nothing. Never really does.</p>
<p class="western">All of it started in the car somewhere, on the ride home. Then intensified as we ran through the downpour, from the parking lot up to the apartment. Then disappeared, when I shucked my jacket, dropped it sopping to the rug, and pinned him against the front door with a kiss.</p>
<p class="western">…Then came back, once I stood under the shower head, alone and hollow, except for the scalding spray and that consuming tightness.</p>
<p class="western">I don't know why I can't cry.</p>
<p class="western">At least, not when I actually want to—when I <em>need</em> to.</p>
<p class="western">Over at the vanity, steam fogs up the bathroom mirror despite the open window. As usual. I find one of the clearer patches and start applying moisturizer to my face.</p>
<p class="western">In the shower, I tried to force it. All I managed were a few weak sobs, some watery eyes and a little bit of snot, but no actual tears. No catharsis. No relief. Just overwhelming tightness and the knowledge, earned through too many years of experience, that it won't go away for a while. That it's gonna spread to my arms and jaw soon, make crackling noises every time I chew, start giving me tension headaches as well, and I just have to muscle through it all and endure, until it goes away on its own.</p>
<p class="western">However long that takes.</p>
<p class="western">—<em>I don't know why you're crying, why you always have to cry. It's embarrassing, frankly, and childish. You're twenty-three years old, angel, time to start acting like it—</em></p>
<p class="western">I drape the towel over the counter, and start rubbing lotion on my body next.</p>
<p class="western">It's always been like this, as far as I remember. Ever since I was a teenager and, at one point, just stopped crying whenever Rebecca would return home and storm through my life, raining down jagged reminders, in case I'd forgotten, that her job always has been—and always would be—more important to her than me. I'd lay in bed after she left, hurt, curled up tightly, with a painful ache lodged deep in my chest and twisting deeper, but… I stopped being able to feel sad enough to let it out. Then eventually stopped feeling sad at all.</p>
<p class="western">Stopped feeling much of anything, really, for a while.</p>
<p class="western">Until I met Bobby.</p>
<p class="western">—<em>It's a joke, angel. It's funny. You would understand it and be able to laugh if you'd just relax and stop looking for excuses to get upset all the time—</em></p>
<p class="western">Another thing wrong with me on the long list of fucked up things wrong with me. Should probably bring it up at the next therapy session.</p>
<p class="western">I sigh—<em>and</em> I should probably hit her up on that medication she's been wanting me to start. Maybe it <em>will</em> help. Maybe I <em>am</em> minimizing things.</p>
<p class="western">Maybe.</p>
<p class="western">Frowning, I wrap the towel back around myself for warmth, pump a dollop of frizz-control from the bottle on the counter, and start smoothing it through my hair.</p>
<p class="western">She's gonna ask how my week went, how I've been feeling lately, and I'll have to talk about what happened tonight, write about it in the journal. At least, parts of it. Bobby parts.</p>
<p class="western">There isn't anything else to mention.</p>
<p class="western">There isn't.</p>
<p class="western">My stomach turns and my breath snags over it for a moment. I swallow hard.</p>
<p class="western">If… I did actually see something, concern or—</p>
<p class="western">A wave of prickling numbness rolls through my limbs and I exhale a shuddering breath.</p>
<p class="western">—then it was just for the well-being of a team member in light of an upcoming mission, not for me personally.</p>
<p class="western">If he comes around here, unlocks my door with his key, or meets me at work sometimes before we head back to my apartment, then it's because he wants sex, not because he wants to see me. If we share a laugh outside fucking or Agency hours, then it's just a fleeting bit of amusement, teasing each other in good nature now, not a friendship or any indication he enjoys my company.</p>
<p class="western">He's only looking to get in my pants. Only interested in knowing <em>certain</em> <em>parts</em> of me. He said so himself. That's it. There isn't anything more to it than that.</p>
<p class="western">There just… isn't.</p>
<p class="western">Mason does not give a fuck about me, period.</p>
<p class="western">And, honestly… who would?</p>
<p class="western">Outside, the rain pounds ceaselessly while I stare at myself in the mostly unclouded mirror.</p>
<p class="western">Tired eyes and a flat expression stare back. I let the towel fall away, catching it in hand as I shiver.</p>
<p class="western">Goosebumps prickle across my bare skin. My muscular arms and shoulders. Abs. Hard body. With large breasts and a mess of thick red hair spilling halfway down my back. With a large bruise too, at the moment, down my right side, down my arm, hip to calf to ankle, now faded a lovely shade of jaundice yellow. Scars as well, on my left, faded even paler. Long thin tracks from lacerations. Thick stubby lines from punctures. And then the big gnarled patches on my arm and chest, the faint ache in the bones beneath both, old breaks throbbing with the weather against their screws and titanium plating.</p>
<p class="western">—<em>Don't take off the shirt. You look better with your clothes on—</em></p>
<p class="western">And… the scar on my neck, now. The newest one. Four points, torn jagged where he chewed. So small and hidden amidst all the others that it's easy to forget it's there—at least, until the nightmares and the bounty hunters come anyway.</p>
<p class="western">My gaze flicks back to my eyes. Unblinking blue.</p>
<p class="western">—<em>I try my best, Alexandra, I really do, but you always make it so difficult—</em></p>
<p class="western">“Nobody would,” I answer, so soft I barely hear the words.</p>
<p class="western">—<em>You just aren't a very lovable person, fundamentally—</em></p>
<p class="western">I start folding the towel. There's more left to do in here, but…</p>
<p class="western">—<em>Even your own mother could barely stand to be around you—</em></p>
<p class="western">With shaking hands, I slip it over the rack, then shut the window.</p>
<p class="western">—<em>Why are you crying again—</em></p>
<p class="western">Think I just want to lie down.</p>
<p class="western">—<em>You know I'm right.</em></p>
<p class="western">Only nine months to go.</p>
<p class="western">I hit the light switch on my way out and enter the bedroom in darkness.</p>
<p class="western">The nightstand sits directly opposite the bathroom door. All I have to do is walk straight, across the edge of the rug and onto carpet. Ten steps. I flick the bedside lamp on and—</p>
<p class="western">I startle hard when I see someone laying in my bed.</p>
<p class="western">Fucking <em>Mason</em>.</p>
<p class="western">With his fucking hair, <em>goddamn it</em>, spread in dark contrast over the cream linen and scaring the shit out of me, and his face too, peeking out from where he's hiding under the duvet, eyes squinting against the sudden light and—</p>
<p class="western"><em>Fuck</em>.</p>
<p class="western">My hand scrabbles at my chest and presses flat, right above my thundering fucking heartbeat as I blow out a long breath.</p>
<p class="western">He glances at me, arm folded above his head, still naked and exactly where I left him when I went to shower, just with the covers drawn up now. Which is… odd. Almost as odd as the look on his face, the frown he levels at me, one I've never seen before, matched with an intense gaze staring hard from beneath his dark, furrowed brows.</p>
<p class="western">I'm usually off the mark when I try to pin down anything more complex than his anger, amusement, or arousal, but I almost want to say he seems… upset. Troubled by something. My brow creases too, as I straighten up and drop my hand. I almost want to ask him about it as well, but I already know that won't necessarily lead to an answer—or even an acknowledgment that something's wrong, if it is at all.</p>
<p class="western">He'll bring it up in his own time, anyway, if there's something he wants me to know.</p>
<p class="western">In the meantime… I huff out another breath and offer him a faint grin to ease the tension.</p>
<p class="western">“Should've joined me if you weren't gonna leave,” I say, then place my hand on my hip. “Though, I do respect the need to skulk around in a dark room.”</p>
<p class="western">“You get another towel yet?”</p>
<p class="western">My grin widens. “And deprive you the fun of stealing that one from me? I would never.”</p>
<p class="western">He glances away and scoffs quietly.</p>
<p class="western">“Another towel won't stop that, sweetheart.”</p>
<p class="western">The amusement slowly drops from my face and I turn away from him, shoulders hunching with uncertainty while I walk back across the room to the dresser. Mason and the bed lie behind me as I start pulling open drawers and shutting them, gathering my clothes for tonight and tomorrow morning, piling both in neat stacks atop the dresser next to the jewelry box and the pothos overflowing its pot to spill halfway to the floor.</p>
<p class="western">I don't think I left him like this when I got up, in this mood with whatever is clearly weighing on his mind, but… I honestly can't recall. I don't even remember walking into the bathroom, really. Or taking off my makeup. Or turning on the shower. I don't know if I even looked back at him as I went, just that I pretty much got up and left as soon as we were finished—and I assumed he would do the same.</p>
<p class="western">As usual.</p>
<p class="western">Maybe he's waiting for a break in the rain before he heads out tonight. Or he's stuck with overnight babysitting duty again. More orders to keep me safe from zombie Big Bird and other lingering Halloween menaces. Or he just didn't feel like getting up, which… is extremely relatable, especially on this particular evening, I have to admit.</p>
<p class="western">I pull on my underwear. My undershirt too, halfway over my head when he speaks up again.</p>
<p class="western">“You enjoy yourself when we fucked earlier?”</p>
<p class="western">…Or he just wanted his ego stroked a little more.</p>
<p class="western">I burst through the neck hole with a soft laugh, and tug the shirt down my torso. “Nuh-uh, no fucking way, sunshine,” I call back, swiping my hair free as I grin. “You've already had enough compliments for tonight.”</p>
<p class="western">A sharp scoff sounds behind me. “I don't need compliments.”</p>
<p class="western">I turn to give him a look, but find myself caught and pinned by his first. He sits upright on the bed now, shoulders hunched forward and stiff, with such an intent look of seriousness on his face that it throws me a little.</p>
<p class="western">“Did you?” he asks again.</p>
<p class="western">My brow raises. “…Uh, yeah, I enjoyed myself. Or did all of the moaning and the needy grabbing and the orgasms not give it away?” I crack another faint grin. “You still have a long way to go with that deficit, though. Hope you're up for the task.”</p>
<p class="western">His frown deepens and he glances away. Faltering, I frown myself, uncertain of what to say, or why he even asked the question at all.</p>
<p class="western">Unable to shake the feeling, too, that my response wasn't the answer he wanted to hear.</p>
<p class="western">Rain whips against the bedroom windows, the harsh, irregular splatters and wind rattling the panes seeming only to emphasize the uncomfortable silence between us. Mason glares hard and unblinking at the wall and, after a long, uneasy moment, I sigh quietly and cross the rug to the foot of the bed, dropping the rest of my sleepwear to the mattress before I drop there myself to pull it on.</p>
<p class="western">I don't think anything unusual happened while we were having sex, but…</p>
<p class="western">…my memory of it is blurry and slightly fragmented, too.</p>
<p class="western">Worry rolls around my stomach, and I blow out a low, tense breath. Distantly, my hands fumble with socks, feet soon encased in warm, pillowy wool, then I hear his voice cut through the tension again.</p>
<p class="western">“You hate him.”</p>
<p class="western">“Hm?” I glance over my shoulder. “Who?”</p>
<p class="western">“Your ex.” Mason's gaze flicks back to mine, his expression softening. “I felt that too. Earlier.”</p>
<p class="western">“Oh.” I turn away, breath momentarily snagging as I clutch the duvet. “Yeah,” I mumble, standing up to slip on my pants, then add, “Guess I do.”</p>
<p class="western">“Why?”</p>
<p class="western">A tense chuckle escapes me, and I whirl to face him, brows arched high in disbelief. “You… wanna know why I hate him?”</p>
<p class="western">“I did punch him in the face for you.” He smirks faintly. “Think you owe me an explanation.”</p>
<p class="western">Another laugh comes while I tie the drawstring at my waist, something more genuine this time despite the wariness straining it. “I don't think you did that <em>just</em> for me,” I tease, then pause, arms coming up to fold across my chest as I stare at him in slight apprehension.</p>
<p class="western">He stares back, still hunched, still a bit tense, but his eyes meet mine with a firm seriousness.</p>
<p class="western">…With an earnestness and sincerity, I might say.</p>
<p class="western">“…You really wanna know?”</p>
<p class="western">Mason shrugs. “Why not?”</p>
<p class="western">I snort and glance away, wry smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Well, his words don't exactly inspire confidence in genuine interest, but… I suppose it would be just a <em>tad</em> hypocritical of me to criticize someone for their morbid curiosity and clumsy expression of it. My arms fold a bit tighter as I suck in my lip to worry it between my teeth.</p>
<p class="western">The real problem is I don't even know <em>where</em> to start with that.</p>
<p class="western">“Well, he's a colossal piece of shit even on his best days,” I begin slowly, “which I'm sure you already gathered. But…”</p>
<p class="western">My hand drifts up to absently stroke my neck.</p>
<p class="western">He also abused me. For years.</p>
<p class="western">Years longer before I was even able to call it that at all—and I still can't say the word out loud.</p>
<p class="western">Years and… from the very start, from the very beginning, that moment at that party during that summer, when I stood on that porch, gazing up at the stars in the soft twilight with a plastic cup in my hand, muffled music in my ears, and he slid onto the railing next to me, flashed a grin and made that <em>stupid</em> comment—</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Feeling homesick?</em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>For what?</em>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>For heaven.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">…<em>Wow. You went there, huh? I don't have nearly enough alcohol or eyeballs for you to call me an angel, buddy.</em></p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Bobby, actually, and that's fine—I won't hold the binocular vision against you.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">What should I say?</p>
<p class="western">He only walked over there to destroy me.</p>
<p class="western">Only smiled to gain my trust, to keep my eyes on his, only spoke to stick in the knives, to hide them in reasonable words so he could start sawing off those wings, so he could slice and dissect, shred apart my confidence, my sense of self, my reality, cut by tiny cut, lie by insidious lie, and pretty much fucking succeeded to the point where, even now, I still feel scabbed and frayed around the edges. Still don't trust myself fully. Still think I'm overreacting all the time. Still stiffen up around raised voices and tremble uncontrollably. Still can't get close to things I once loved, or even remember what that fucking love felt like at all.</p>
<p class="western">Still lie in bed too, some nights, knotted with tension, feeling so thoroughly worthless and alone that I can't sleep, not when his fucking voice keeps whispering from the darkness. Not when he keeps reminding me of shit I couldn't forget, even if I tried.</p>
<p class="western">Not when, deep down, I still believe almost every fucking word he said.</p>
<p class="western">Because he put his poison in me too, his rot, shoved it so far inside I can't reach it. I can't get it out of me.</p>
<p class="western">Can't separate it from myself either.</p>
<p class="western">All I can do is live with it, carry it with me, a part of him festering around my soul forever, ensuring that, no matter what I do, no matter how far I get, Bobby Marks will never be truly parted from <em>his</em> angel, even if she did eventually manage to crawl away wingless and bleeding.</p>
<p class="western">Moisture pricks at my eyes, and I let out the long, wavering breath I hadn't realized I was holding.</p>
<p class="western">I guess… I could say all of that. Those reasons do explain and encompass why I hate him.</p>
<p class="western">But I doubt Mason would find them particularly compelling, and I really don't think I could stomach it again, hearing someone say that I should have just left if I didn't want any of that to happen.</p>
<p class="western">That it was my fault, that I let him do all of it, that I got what I deserved, for not noticing sooner, for not moving away fast enough.</p>
<p class="western">For not seeing the goddamn blade gleaming in his hand in the fucking first place.</p>
<p class="western">How could I miss it? How stupid could I fucking be?</p>
<p class="western">I'm probably lying about what happened anyway.</p>
<p class="western">Something catches in my throat then, and suddenly it's too much. My face is too hot and my eyes are burning and <em>of course</em> it wants to come out right now, of course. Not in the shower. Here. In front of an audience.</p>
<p class="western">Like I hadn't already humiliated myself enough tonight.</p>
<p class="western">Blinking hard, I whirl away from him again, gaze darting rapidly around the room until it lands on the trail of our discarded clothes. I begin snatching them off the floor eagerly, my pants, sweater, Mason's shirt, then his belt from where I'd yanked it out impatiently and thrown it—</p>
<p class="western">“He just—” I grab his pants too, my underwear, and no, 'betrayed' isn't the right word because that implied a sense of loyalty Bobby never possessed “—He nearly fucked me over, almost destroyed everything that mattered to me at the time, everything I was working toward, all so he could save his own sorry fucking ass from the problems <em>he</em> created. Just—”</p>
<p class="western">I slam all of my dirty clothes into the hamper, then carefully drape Mason's over the back of the armchair.</p>
<p class="western">“I didn't even know what he was fucking up to,” I continue, stalking toward the closet. “He did all that bullshit behind my back, and then when he got caught for it, he tried to blame it all on me—” the closet doors whip open in front of me, rattling as they snap into folds at my flanks “—tried to burn down my entire fucking life, no hesitation, no option off the table, just a complete willingness to annihilate me if it meant protecting himself.”</p>
<p class="western">My brow furrows deeply as I start yanking out the rest of tomorrow's outfit, hard enough to make the hangers bang into the wall. Fleece jacket. Rain shell. Gloves.</p>
<p class="western">“Just layers of vindictive selfishness and cruelty I never thought possible,” I mutter, grabbing my hiking boots too, “not until they were being inflicted on me, and all by someone who claimed to <em>love</em> me—” I scoff hard “—someone who <em>should've</em> had my back, but…”</p>
<p class="western">I trail off, shaking my head as a bitter, wry grin pulls across my lips.</p>
<p class="western">That's also wrong. Bobby never had my back.</p>
<p class="western">Can't have the back of someone you don't actually fucking care about, after all.</p>
<p class="western">Spinning on my heel, I ferry all the items over to the chair, boots on the floor, the rest on the seat, then grab the stack from the dresser too, and drop it on top of the jackets. I only notice the tremble in my hands at that moment, once they're empty. The blood pulsing in my ears, too. The way my face throbs along with it, in perfect time with the beat slamming uncomfortably inside my chest. I try to calm it down. Fumble out a hand to grab the back of the chair and take in a few breaths, as deep as I can manage.</p>
<p class="western">Mason watches, out of the corner of my eye, but doesn't speak. Waiting for me to finish my break, I guess, and continue the outburst I started.</p>
<p class="western">…About the tribunal. That's what I instinctively reached for. The ending.</p>
<p class="western">Of course.</p>
<p class="western">My fingers fidget and burrow into the fabric beneath them.</p>
<p class="western">It's, well… not exactly an <em>easy</em> topic, but considering the entirety of my relationship with Bobby, the ending is by far the easiest part to explain. The safest. The thing least likely to invite judgment and condemnation.</p>
<p class="western">The only aspect, too, where I have any proof at all that he ever actually did anything to hurt me.</p>
<p class="western">For a moment, that bitter grin returns to my face while I stare out the window and listen to the storm howling around us.</p>
<p class="western">I don't think Mason would require any proof of anything, though. And I don't think there's much else to say about it, regardless.</p>
<p class="western">“…He just fucked me over, in more than one way,” I finish quietly, watching droplets hit the glass. “That's the gist of it, anyway, why I hate him. The short and clean version.”</p>
<p class="western">Pretty much covers everything really, porch to hallway to station to now. And to things and places I can't yet see in the future, undoubtedly.</p>
<p class="western">I let out a soft sigh, gaze lingering on the rain for a moment longer.</p>
<p class="western">Then I glance down and notice I've somehow wrapped Mason's underwear entirely around my hand.</p>
<p class="western">Blinking once, I disentangle myself from them. Lay them over the back of the chair again, as dignified as I can. Tug the edges to straighten out the wrinkles too, for good measure.</p>
<p class="western">Heat floods my cheeks anew as I stare at his underwear, but it has less to do with unintentionally fondling that particular item of clothing, and more to do with the fact that Mason, apparently, didn't have a comment about it. Still doesn't have a comment about it.</p>
<p class="western">Or about anything else I've said.</p>
<p class="western">Tension saturates the room once more, thick and choking, although maybe it would be more accurate to say it never left in the first place. I just got too loud to notice it, the heavy silence. The stuffiness in the air, prickling sweat across my body beneath clothes that are suddenly too warm, up to a mouth that's suddenly too dry. My arms come up to fold around my chest, not helping cool me down, but shielding me a little. Providing a different measure of relief.</p>
<p class="western">Because maybe the real reason I feel so uncomfortable is his gaze, the way it's burning into me—and the way I'm suddenly too afraid to look over and see what it means.</p>
<p class="western">…So then, like any good coward, I should probably run.</p>
<p class="western">I should… go see about accomplishing a glass of water. That's manageable. Or stare vacantly into the fridge, then a book. Curl up on the couch. Maybe fall asleep there, just to change things up. Maybe even fall asleep before he leaves, because I don't know why he's still here or how long he plans to stay, and I'm not about to ask because it isn't my business and it doesn't matter anyway and he can stay as long as he wants, I don't mind, but it's best to not think anything of it and just carry on as usual.</p>
<p class="western">With the assumption that this was the last time. That, once my door shuts behind him, he will never return.</p>
<p class="western">Because there isn't anything more to it than that.</p>
<p class="western">There just isn't.</p>
<p class="western">Without another thought or glance, I walk over to the nightstand, reach to flick the lamp off and—</p>
<p class="western">I startle hard, the instant before the light clicks out, when Mason appears right next to me on the edge of the bed so fast it seems like he fucking teleported.</p>
<p class="western">For the <em>second</em> fucking time tonight, <em>goddamn it</em>, fucking vampires and—</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Fuck</em>,” I hiss, twisting a hand into my shirt, right above the heartbeat I <em>just</em> fucking calmed down, now trying to slam its way out of my rib cage. “Stop <em>scaring</em> me, asshole.”</p>
<p class="western">He scoffs “Stop being so easily scared.”</p>
<p class="western">“You did that on purpose!”</p>
<p class="western">“Maybe,” is all he replies, and I can hear the damn smirk in his tone, even if I can't see it on his face.</p>
<p class="western">Folding my arms, I blow out a long, irritated breath and give him a look I know <em>he</em> can fucking see, at least. “Gonna make me afraid to use my goddamn lamp,” I mutter.</p>
<p class="western">His thighs bump around my legs, then his fingers trace behind my knees. “Good. The walls in your room are too fucking bright.”</p>
<p class="western">“They're white.”</p>
<p class="western">“Exactly.”</p>
<p class="western">Rolling my eyes, I huff another breath and turn to go, but Mason's hands slide up my legs and jerk me closer instead. I sway into him, off-balance, and catch myself on his shoulders with fumbling hands. His grip curls firmly around the back of my thighs to hold me in place.</p>
<p class="western">“…And you were about to leave again,” he says quietly, soft accent rumbling over me in the darkness like thunder with the rain.</p>
<p class="western">The warmth of his breath makes me shiver. Or maybe it's from the brush of his nose and mouth against my torso, the way he squeezes my legs, thumbs stroking slow, hypnotic circles through my pants until I lean toward him unquestioningly.</p>
<p class="western">Or maybe it's the rapid shift of tension in the air, a different permutation of heaviness, a rearrangement of weight at an atomic level, charging the space around us with a new element buzzing with odd energy as every single hair on my body raises in unison and anticipation beneath it.</p>
<p class="western">Mason wraps his arms around my thighs, maybe just as aware and uncertain of the change himself.</p>
<p class="western">But it's Mason.</p>
<p class="western">So he simply shrugs under my hands, chin stubble catching on my shirt as he looks up at me with an unseen gaze I'm compelled to return anyway.</p>
<p class="western">“I didn't want you to go.”</p>
<p class="western">My breath snags hard around those words. My thoughts, too.</p>
<p class="western">I almost ask him to repeat what he said, just to make sure I heard correctly, but then he plants a kiss to my chest, a mark of lips directly above my heart, something gentle, lingering, something that makes an ache twist so deeply inside of me I can't say where specifically and the only thing that comes out of my mouth at that point is less an actual word and more of a breathless exhale.</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Oh</em>.”</p>
<p class="western">And, because it's Mason, because he's a merciless bastard who doesn't play fair <em>at all</em>, he also gives me no fucking time to recover.</p>
<p class="western">He peels my shirt off and tosses it away, then pulls me in again to rudely nuzzle my chest, my stomach, the swell of my breasts. Even ruder are the kisses, his wet lips and groaning nibbles. They're soft and pleasurable, all of them, completely inconsiderate with how mindfully he presses them against the pain and tension in my body, how thoughtlessly perfect they are, just the right amount of pressure and heat and tickling breath to make me shiver again, to drag a deep sigh from my lungs and impolitely shut my eyes and force me to slump into him with my arms looped together behind his neck.</p>
<p class="western">So rude, all of it, that my shoulders slouch, my head tilts back, and a low moan leaves my lips. So fucking rude I can't even think with everything he's doing.</p>
<p class="western">Dimly, I remember words about compensation. A deficit. Plans to fuck me multiple times tonight.</p>
<p class="western">Maybe that's why he's still here, but I don't really care.</p>
<p class="western">I'm just glad he is.</p>
<p class="western">That dull ache twists again and Mason's mouth pauses mid-kiss with it. His fingers tighten on my waist.</p>
<p class="western">The reprieve lasts exactly long enough for me to realize the feeling originates in my chest—</p>
<p class="western">—then for me to wonder if I've ever made him feel the same.</p>
<p class="western">My stomach flips hard and tumbles over that thought, and all I can do about it is clutch his back and take a steadying breath that comes in more like a ragged gasp. Mason notices, of course, and finishes his kiss slowly, a quiet press of lips that pops loud against the rain. He lingers in place while I tremble against him, face pressed to my side, brow furrowing, fingers tightening, breath washing over me in warm whispers with each exhale and—<em>fuck</em>, he's so warm, all of him.</p>
<p class="western">The question knits on my brow, but doesn't make it to words before Mason pulls me into an answering embrace and then it doesn't fucking matter anyway, warmth it is, because his hands are on my waist and tucked below my ass and his arms are wrapped so warm and snug and comfortably around me that I actually fucking whimper. Then he's inhaling deeply, urgently, nuzzling into me just the same, circling drags of soft lips and stubble, needy groans, a bump of nose and then his kiss, when it comes again, comes shuddering between our breathless panting and slams into me like a fucking hammer.</p>
<p class="western">He presses another one, another, and I don't know what's in them.</p>
<p class="western">A knot of inchoate words and desires. A want so overwhelming it borders on feral. Maybe even that stupid ache too, for all I can tell.</p>
<p class="western">There's just too much in each one to say—and I can't fucking think.</p>
<p class="western">Not when he's skimming them up the center of my body in a hot trail of destruction. Not when each careful press of his lips splinters fresh cracks in an already deepening fissure. Not when he's never kissed me like this before, <em>ever</em>, and it's taking everything I fucking have to hold myself together while his mouth is busy splitting me apart.</p>
<p class="western">His kisses lead back to that first searing mark, where he stops, where he hovers above my heart for a beat, where his breath plays featherlight over my skin and powerful enough to crumble mountains, and his lips brush gently, so fucking gently, in fractures and falling shards, hairline and delicate, right before he plants another goddamn kiss and that fucking ache wrenches hard enough to choke a noise in my throat, hard enough to make my eyes squeeze shut against the sting.</p>
<p class="western">Hard enough to grant me some clarity as well, on the very edge of shattering entirely.</p>
<p class="western">Because it <em>is</em> Mason, because he's a prickly jerk who has no goddamn business kissing me like that <em>at all</em>, or holding me so securely, or telling me he wants me to stay, or staying himself, both here and at the station. He has no fucking business doing any of that, asking me questions like he's interested in answers, touching me like he wants more than sex, looking at me like he actually fucking—</p>
<p class="western">Like he cares.</p>
<p class="western">Like he fucking cares about me.</p>
<p class="western">Because he <em>doesn't</em>—not at all in the fucking slightest—and there isn't anything more to it than that.</p>
<p class="western">There just fucking isn't.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welllll... apologies for the abrupt ending, but I decided to split this first chapter into 2 parts because it was getting so long. The rating will change to explicit with the next update. If you enjoyed, kudos or comments are always appreciated. ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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